


Do Not Wash

by chien



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-13
Updated: 2006-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chien/pseuds/chien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bart seeks Owen out for advice and company as they both awkwardly try to navigate through their shifting lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Not Wash

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally written and posted on LJ on 8/13/2006, around the time Owen had debuted as a new character. So he wasn't really developed yet! Looking back on it, it seems a bit OOC considering how he changes as a character thanks to Outsiders. Still, I like this fic. It was fun to write, and it also described some of the frustrations I had with the dynamics of the Teen Titans team at the time, haha! Note that Owen refers to Bart as a kid not in the literal sense, because I think in canon their ages only differed by maybe two or three years. He just means it as his perception of Bart as being naive and smaller-bodied.

Owen balled the tissue up and stuffed it under his pillow. He considered making himself decent again, but decided that it’s not a big deal, so he left his boxers at his thighs and heavy jeans on the floor. It was late enough that his parents could only be asleep. They couldn’t barge in even if they wanted to. The door was locked. Besides, it felt good to chill like this. He liked the cool breeze of the night air on his exposed skin. He took a deep breath in and closed his eyes.

At that precise moment, Bart stumbled in from the window. “Hey Owen I was wondering—okaynevermindyou’reobviouslybusy!” He zipped out, leaving a couple of leaves in his wake. The tree outside the window shook erratically.

Sighing, Owen slid his boxers on properly and languidly made his way to the window. Bart was sitting on a strong branch a few feet below. He was dressed in civvies and clutching a skateboard against his chest. Owen waved him in. “Don’t stomp, you’ll wake my parents.” He braced himself against his windowsill and grabbed the lip of the skateboard, then hauled it to help Bart climb into his room. Gingerly, he settled the skateboard down quietly against the wall. The scrawny kid took off his heavy shoes and pushed them to the side of the skateboard. Still a little embarrassed, Bart fidgeted on Owen’s bed after he quickly scurried onto it.

“So?” Owen turned his pillow lengthwise and propped his back against the headboard. Bart never came around “just because.” He always had a question or a horribly thought-out excuse. With some pleasure, Owen came to know that the kid was usually just lonely and sought Owen out as good company. Bart’s friends must really suck. Nevertheless, Bart still never came over “just because,” he had too much pride to admit that he just wanted to talk or hang out since his friends really, really sucked.

Bart flinched when Owen spoke-- he was clearly upset and bothered over something. It was such a contrast to how Bart’s first entrance was done with such gusto, and now he was uncharacteristically quiet. The kid was usually very talkative when he came over. Bart played with the hemming of his two-toned No Fear shirt. “I, uh… I was wondering,” he swallowed and looked around the messy room and set his eyes on Owen’s ‘dresser’ (he had one, but he used the laundry baskets more), “Can I borrow a hoodie?”

Amused, Owen leaned over the side of his bed and grabbed the black Billabong zip-up he was wearing earlier in the day. Luckily, it was one of his smaller hoodies. Bart would swim in an adult large. He chucked it at his half-brother, who caught it robotically and poorly pretended to care about what brand it was: Bart thumbed the inside label, despite the huge logo on the front. Owen could feel the small smile tugging the corner of his lips up. Bart was just so, so bad at faking anything.

Owen waited. He felt good right now, and could stand to be patient. It also didn’t hurt that today had been a nice day. Work was good, Rogue stuff was relatively uneventful (he’s still not allowed to do more than watch the hideout, but that’s to be expected when you’re new), and dinner with the family was great.

Bart pulled the hoodie on and adjusted it. It was still rather large, but that was what was in these days anyway. Making Bart appear even smaller, the bottom went down to the middle of his thighs and the sleeves were at least five inches too long. He pushed them back to his elbows so that he could use his hands. With interest, Owen watched Bart smell the collar and wrinkle his nose. He didn’t doubt that it was probably a little musty. After all, he hadn’t washed it before. Hoodies are always ruined when they’re washed, so it’s best to keep the sweating and food contact to a bare minimum. That was rule Owen valued for all of his hoodies. Even if it was wasteful, he's tossed them out before just because his sweet-natured mom accidentally threw them in with her own clothes. It came out in bad shape, as expected.

“So…” Bart started a conversation without thanking Owen for the jacket, “Er… you trim?”

Well, that was kind of different. Then again, this entire visit started out differently. Usually, the kid would turn on the tv on his way in and make himself at home. Then he would just talk about inane things for up to an hour, and then bother Owen about villain stuff for a few minutes: nothing ever too specific about the Rogues, since Owen never asked anything too specific about the Flash. After that, maybe some video games (with headphones on) and more talking; Bart might take a quick nap, but he was always gone before four AM.

Overall, they just tried to ignore the hero-villain thing and instead tried to fulfill each other in some way. Bart was at a weird moment in his life where he sought family, friendship, comfort, and a social life. Owen was still adjusting to this hero-villain thing and sought stability, companionship, and the sound of talking. They were very similar to what Bart wanted, but on a different level. Meetings with the Rogues were spontaneous, which meant that Owen would have to leave his friends randomly (“You’re unreliable now because of your dumb second job,” was one of the last things he heard from his now ex-girlfriend). Plus, Owen had inherited something bothersome from his mom that Bart also had-- he slept in subjective time, and would wake up in minutes despite his body having slept for hours.

The only thing the Rogues apparently understood was beauty sleep—hence the empty nights. Subjective time meant Bart and Owen both had daily hours of nothing to do during the dead hours when, it seemed, the rest of the world had decided to fuck off until 6AM. Bart wasn’t “stable,” but he was there often enough to be counted on. It was just hard to pinpoint what days he would pick to visit. Something about a guy called “Jay.” Couldn't elaborate more on that, he quickly added. Owen had nodded then, as he had to cut his stories short a lot too for similar reasons.

Anyways, yes. He did, in fact, trim. “Chicks think it’s cute if you tidy-up. They assume it’s for them. Makes it easier later.” The actual reason as to why Owen trimmed was because he was dared to shave it all off when he was younger. It felt breezier, less steamy, and nice. When it grew back, he had a terrible itch. So, Owen trimmed regularly.

“Did it work this time?” Bart really took this kind of information to heart. Little things like this probably didn’t come up very often in the kind of books that he had read. Also, it was pretty apparent that dating and girls were not things he excelled at.

“Ah, no. I didn’t have time to find someone tonight.” Sad but true. “Manual labor.” He smirked at Bart, who mimicked the smirk as a response. He was becoming quite the little copycat. He knew it meant that Bart admired him, so he tried not to take offense. A while ago, he had pointed it out as a brief side comment, but as soon as the words left his mouth he was filled with regret. The younger boy froze up immediately and pulled his arms in, closing up. Bart quickly explained that he wasn't doing it deliberately. Ouch. It was almost as bad as when Owen had brought up how he felt that Bart's frequent use of quotes were an indication that his acquired knowledge had become some sort of safety blanket. It was a way he could attempt to assure others that he was intelligent and mature so that they would respect him. After that, the kid took special care to not repeat quotes around Owen. Not the intended effect, but Owen wasn't really sure what he was trying to achieve with his Psych 101 nonsense. Bart really did take everything he said too seriously.

Bart lit up at this opportunity to learn from his role model-- he quipped with genuine interest, “What are the advantages to trimming?” Awkward way to put it, but oh well. Tilting his head back, Owen attempted to think of scientific nice-things for Bart's sake. Nope, can’t think of any. Let’s go with the normal stuff, then. “It’s less warm, which might be a good thing if you’re in tight spandex all the time.” Bart nodded furiously, as if he was taking notes. “Yeah, I guess you’re pretty lucky that you’re just wearing normal pants for your outfit.” Owen hmmm-ed and wrinkled his nose in thought. “I guess it’s cleaner too.” Bart nodded again, eager as ever.

Hrmmmm.

“Girls like how it feels.” Bart squinted, confused. “What? How do you know?” “Yanno, when they’re on you. I don’t know! This is something a friend of mine told me.” It’s not like he ever bottomed for a guy who trimmed. Or, uh, bottomed. For a guy.

Okay, okay! You do weird things when you’re younger. But it was just that one time and it was really uncomfortable. The guy was terrible. Owen felt he did pretty well, though. As a top, that is. Mental pat on the back.

Mmm, sex. Doing it yourself doesn’t compare to doing it with others, even if you’re still just rubbing off. There’s more excitement, which makes it much more arousing and fun. (Well, unless the person is awful—like the aforementioned guy.)

“Okay, disregarding girls. It feels nice by itself.”

“What do you mean?”

...Idea.

“I mean, well, this.” Owen pressed Bart’s hand against the start of the thin trail of hairs on his lower stomach. He then deliberately, slowly slipped the tips of Bart's fingers underneath his boxers so that they touched the warm area above his growing erection. Lifting Bart's hand out, he then repeated the movement again-- eyes locked with Bart's-- until Bart shakily stroked the path on his own.

It tickled as Bart’s hand skated over his skin repeatedly. Bart's eyes widened at the sight Owen’s hard-on tenting his boxers-- unexpectedly, he licked his lips in apprehension and bit down on his lower lip. Owen couldn't help but lick his lips too, suddenly realizing how dry his mouth felt as it had been hanging open from him panting lightly. He gently reached his arm around Bart’s shoulders and pulled him closer. Eventually, Bart relaxed against Owen as he closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of Owen rubbing his arm, and ran a finger up the shaft of Owen’s erection. Reassuringly, he squeezed Bart’s shoulder and mouthed his ear. The teen moaned, closing his hand around Owen.

Licking along Bart’s jaw, Owen concentrated on not overwhelming him. He only had speed in bursts and would never be able to catch up to Bart and apologize if Bart scurried off. It’s just… truly, he’s been thinking about doing this for a while. No matter what, Owen was a sexual being, and he’s always been a bit of a rebel that dabbled in all sorts of other interests. Plus, Bart was cute enough, and so-- studious? Sure.

He decided to aid Bart, using his free hand to close around Bart’s hand to try and lead him. In response, Bart shot him an annoyed look-- as if saying, "What? You think I can't do this?" Well, of course Bart’s done this before, but he doesn’t know Owen's body yet. He doesn’t know how fast or hard Owen needed it, or where his sweet spot was. Owen nudged Bart's fingers open and used his other hand to drip a dollop of cold lubricant onto the head of his erection, then tossed the small clear bottle to the side table it came from. He plucked Bart's hand up and palmed the slippery head-- breathing in sharply through his nose at the feeling of someone else's hand pressing firmly on the engorged erection.

Owen guided: He wrapped his hand around Bart’s and stroked slowly, pulling upwards from the head smoothly with the aid of the warming lubricant. He shuddered, his eyes fluttering a bit at the ticklish but sweet sensation. Owen kissed Bart’s chin and dragged Bart's hand raggedly down to the hilt-- thoroughly spreading the lubricant on his erection. His grip tightened around Bart's hand. He dropped his free hand from Bart’s shoulder and traced his fingers from Bart's hip down to his thigh, relishing in Bart's shiver and moan. He started stroking faster, but found that he was no longer in control. The kid learned quickly and moved without Owen’s help. Groaning, Owen threw his head to the side as Bart got it down perfectly. His hips bucked when Bart would pause briefly to tighten his grip whenever his fingers would slip over the ridge between the head and shaft. Grabbing blindly, Owen managed to unzipp Bart’s brown cargo pants and squeezed Bart through his boxer briefs.

The encouragement made Bart vibrate all over as he twisted. “Shit,” panted Owen, “Do it again.” He squeezed Bart firmly, which earned him another shiver. Owen did the math-- Bart feeling good equals Owen feeling more good. That's, well, good. His thoughts were scattered, but he fumbled as he grabbed both Bart's briefs and shorts at his hip and jerked them down to Bart's knees. He caught his lower lip with his teeth as he smiled sneakily, and palmed Bart's erection with the leftover lubricant on his sticky hand.

Bart spasmed and vibrated harder, making Owen have to bite down hard on his lower lip to stop himself from yelling as he came. Wincing from over-sensitivity, Owen had to throw both of his hands onto Bart's to stop him from jerking him.

Unsatisfied, Bart straddled him impatiently-- ignoring how doing so was putting him in contact with Owen's dirtied stomach-- and puffed his cheeks out at Owen. He whined-- "Come on, that can't be all you've got?"-- but smiled mischievously as he caressed himself, his knuckles bumping into Owen's slippery lower stomach.

“Heh, can’t I rest?” he brushed the hair out of Bart’s face and breathed out an exaggerated, exasperated sigh. This time, Bart guided Owen’s hand, directing it under the oversized hoodie that had bunched up around his lips. Owen smiled and gave the kid a slow, tight stroke-- then used his burst of speed to jack him as fast as he could. Bart slumped forward-- his forehead hitting Owen in the chin-- and panted wetly onto Owen's collar bone. It was either the speed or the pressure that made the kid climax-- Owen was too tired to analyze it and it all happened far too quickly for him to even understand what was going on. Damn, that kid was so much faster than him. He'd definitely never, ever be able to catch up if Bart ever ran out on him. Best to make sure he stays on his good side, ha.

Dazed and exhausted, Bart collapsed on top of Owen and quickly fell asleep.

Owen awoke later-- much later than he was used to at this point of his power-infused life-- and saw Bart standing next to the bed with his back to him, eyeing the outstretched end of the hoodie with great concern. Lazily, he stretched and sat up. With a pout, Bart turned around and held it out to Owen. “I got it dirty already.” Owen yawned and ruffled Bart’s hair. “With what?” Bart pouted, “With cum. Your cum-- when I leaned on you. And my cum, when I...” he stopped and turned red.

Owen reconsidered his “no-wash” rule.


End file.
